


the worst thing that i ever did (is what i did to you)

by meega



Category: The Wilds (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, High School AU, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Religious Conflict, it's the betty AU nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meega/pseuds/meega
Summary: It's the Betty AU nobody asked for because I hate myself and want to suffer. Based on Betty by Taylor Swift.//Toni and Shelby meet when they're sixteen, they fall in love at seventeen, and then break each other's hearts only a month later. What is there to do but beg for forgiveness?
Relationships: Shelby Goodkind/Toni Shalifoe
Comments: 42
Kudos: 320





	1. Betty

You’re only seventeen. You’re in love and feel the power of forever in your hands, burning as bright as the sun, but you’re only seventeen. And you’re angry and alone and no one’s ever really been there for you for so long now, you’re _so alone_ , that you start expecting it, almost looking for it. For the other shoe to drop. You’ve learned through the years that everything good comes at a cost, sooner or later. You wish it didn’t. _God_ , you wish it with all your might. You’re not religious – on the contrary – but you whisper it to yourself every night like a supplication, a prayer, before you fall into yet another restless sleep. You wish life could be easy, and soft, and lovely. But it isn’t.

You’re only seventeen and so is she. And you shouldn’t, you think. You shouldn’t be seventeen with her, because being seventeen means a lifetime of errors ahead of you. It means being reckless and angry and passionate about all the wrong reasons. It means being unable to get a grip on yourself, control always an inch out of reach, out of grasp; only a feather’s touch away, but still so fucking far away from you. And when you look into her eyes you feel the responsibility of someone’s love on your calloused hands. In her eyes you see her hope, her ingenuity, her innocence. And you _want_ that responsibility. Because with it comes so much more joy, more pleasure, more _happiness_ than you’d ever even dreamed of feeling. And you want her to feel it, too. So, you convince yourself you’re good enough, kind enough, measured enough, to shoulder it.

You’re not, you find out.

After all, you’re only seventeen.

//

From the beginning, it was explosive. You should’ve known, after all. Her being Shelby fucking Goodkind and you being, well, you. She was pretty and kind, and popular where you were brass and brute and a loner. All you two could do was bicker, since the beginning. You don’t even remember exactly how it went down. It was junior year and you’d both been assigned to the same homeroom, Mrs. Klein’s. She’d sent the both of you to some storage room to get a couple of extra chairs or something. You’d argued the whole way there. She’d insisted on singing some kind of Jesus-loving song while you walked the empty hallways. And even then, as strangers, you hurt her. Just a door to the knee on your way back. It could’ve even been mistaken by an accident. You were carrying chairs, the door had one of those contraptions that pulled it shut immediately unless you grabbed it. But you knew. You’d thrown it back onto her. You’d wanted to hurt her. Just so that she’d shut up for once, get off your nerves, get your bubbling anger under control for once. It was nothing too bad, but still.

You regretted it immediately, jumping to see if she was alright. Surprisingly, she sent you off and walked herself to the infirmary.

After that it was only downhill, but the kind of downhill where the slope isn’t pronounced enough for you to notice. Not until you’re halfway down and then the way up is impossible to walk. So, you had nothing to do but continue down. Like destiny, you were bound to hurt each other. It is what happened to people who loved you, after all. Martha’d even said it that one night after that one fiasco that one time. Because, of course, nights with fiascos were your specialty. She’d said it, in a heap of rage and hurt and passion, but you knew she’d thought about it before. You knew that’s how she saw you. _You break everything you touch_. And it was true. So, you’re not exactly to blame for what happened. You never knew anything else. No one had ever cared enough to show you a better way.

Not until Shelby fucking Goodkind, anyways. But even with her, even with her walking you through it, her with all the fucked-up she’d been dealing with along the way. She’d made the effort of helping _you_ – of all the people in the world she’d decided to help _you_ – and you’d still paid her with the exact same coin you’d been paid with. Because it was all you had. Even with her you’d failed.

And even if she’d tried to show you a better way, the same way you showed her hate wasn’t the only thing she’d ever know, old habits die hard, don’t they?

And so, you fight with destiny as you try to move through the days without her. You fight with the idea that everything you touch turns to ash. You fight it because you know it’s so fucking true and it feels so static, so ingrained in your soul, in your self, that it makes you terrified for the future. _You’ll be alone forever,_ it seems to whisper. You try to counter it with that fake positivity your brain feeds your heart, the kind you read on Instagram posts and school-issued brochures. You think, _I won’t, I’ll find my family, I’ll find people who don’t break, I’ll be accepted, I’ll learn._

You know it’s bullshit but you still try. It’s all you can think of. You’re at your last straw and it’s truly starting to get to you and you’re desperate to run from it. Frantic to try and outrun the desperation and emptiness of not having something – someone – to call home.

Sometimes, you even flirt with the idea of getting her back. Generally, it’ll be with a bottle of cheap vodka on your hand, gripped tight, knuckles white. There’ll be tears down your cheeks and you’ll be completely alone; the sounds of whatever party is the scene for the weekend going on behind you. but you’re apart from it. It’ll generally be at Fatin’s parties, you start to realize. Her backyard’s the only one big enough to allow you some privacy before the girls realize you’re not there with them.

But, of course, you don’t. Besides, it would only be to humiliate yourself. Shelby wouldn’t be dumb enough to fall for your act _twice._

//

It started slow and steady and then all at once, you realize. You can’t exactly pinpoint the moment it happened. You guess no one can, really. Not when it happens so organically. Bickering and hatred turn to side-eyes and reluctant confessions; understanding follows, and then fondness and then, well, you’re hooked.

You don’t admit it to anyone, of course, but Martha seems to realize the shift. She tells you she’s proud of you and you feel tears welling up. You swallow them, forcing a cocky grin followed by some fuckboyish comment that makes Martha roll her eyes. But it suddenly frightens you. _All at once_ comes with force and you, of course, fight back immediately. It’s as it always has been. Hit harder than they hit you and maybe they’ll leave you alone.

But then Shelby kisses you. And her lips are soft if a little parched. Sweet if a little forceful. So intense and then not there at all. You run after her then, your stomach reeling with whiplash as it tries to bask in the feeling of butterflies fluttering about while your brain rakes itself to find a way to keep Shelby, to stop her from running, to ask her what’s wrong, to help her. It’s the first time your instincts push you to help someone. More so someone like Shelby fucking Goodkind.

You do, of course. You catch up to her. You look into her eyes, so clear and green and hazel and _scared_ , so fucking scared. You calm her down in a way you’ve never been able to calm yourself. She nods and heaves and worries her bottom lip while you try to talk her through the panic, through the desperation. It takes almost another week for the two of you to even talk again. But you wait it out.

Because you feel confident. For the first time in your life, you feel confident in someone else. In that, at their own time, they’ll come to you. And so, you trust and open up. You tell her about your parents, or lack thereof. You tell her about the endless night as a four, five, six, seven-year-old, wondering when would mom come home and tuck you in. Wondering if it really was an actual thing – mom’s tucking in their kids at night – or something Hollywood made up the same way they made up dads and Christmas trees and birthday parties. You feel seen with her in a way no one had ever made you feel. And suddenly all that anger, all that hatred and frustration, it suddenly stops. It gets replaced with giddy nervousness, and calm, and warmth, and happiness.

You get to know her, inside and out. You make do with the scarce time you get. You talk and talk and talk. She tells you about her family, about the pageants, her siblings, the charities she’s involved with, and also the musicals she sees behind her parent’s backs, and her dream of someday going to Broadway. Everything.

But then May rolls around, bringing in doubt and desperation. You’ve been together for no more than a month, maybe a month and a week. All in secret, of course. Hushed conversations behind the bleachers, hot make-out sessions in Shelby’s brand-new hybrid, endless nights on the phone and text conversations that consist of every possible love-y emoji in the world.

But then May comes and Senior Prom comes too. You’re Juniors so you don’t even think about it. you never go to such events unless it’s strictly mandatory and, since you’re juniors, it’s not. You’re busy thinking about summer, about Fatin’s parties and trips down to Leah’s grandparents’ beach house. About basketball with the team on the neighborhood’s court, under scorching sun and laughter-filled air. You think about finally having more time with her. For the first time, you think of a future, even if a rather close future.

But then Shelby texts.

_Meet me behind the bleachers after lunch?_

You’re intrigued, maybe thinking about making out, maybe thinking about her father and what he may do to Shelby if he found out about you two.

You find her and as soon as you lay eyes on her, you can tell something happened.

The expectancy washes over you like a cold shower after practice. _Here it is_ , it seems to be saying, the other shoe, the end of it, the part that hid behind the curtain, waiting for the moment to do its grand entrance. Old frustrations and, dare you call it, fear, start building right at the pit of your stomach, pressing on your throat – not enough to retch but not little enough to allow for a normal breathing.

“Andrew invited me to Prom.” She says. You’re heaving. Andrew, you remember him. The boy who’d constantly make eyes at Shelby, practically drooling over her whenever she was in eyeshot. Of course, he made eyes at almost every pretty girl who’d look his way.

You want to jump to your feet and go looking for him. Punch him in the guts, break his nose. He dared ask Shelby, _your Shelby_ , to Prom? He thinks she’d even consider–

“…and I said yes.” She bites her lip, looking down and twisting her thumb over her palm. For a moment you’re stunned silent and a thought, a very stupid thought, climbs into your mind and lays roots. Shelby’s finally realized who you are. She’s finally seen something she doesn’t like. She’s finally found that ugly little side of you, the side you’d been so good at caging as of lately. The side that’d pushed you into throwing pee at the other team at that basketball game, the side that’d pushed you to run away from so many foster homes, the side that’d made you talk back to teachers, push and punch classmates, and so much more.

You felt like an exposed nerve, so fucking naked and _vulnerable._

“What?” you manage to speak for a moment, and you barely recognize your own voice. Shelby recoils, taking a step back, her eyes widening. You sound like a beast, like a killer, like someone you don’t like at all.

“I couldn’t say no Toni, you know how Andrew goes to the same church as my family. His dad would’ve told my dad and then I– I don’t know what–”

You’re not listening.

“He already suspects something’s up and with everything that– that happened before– and–”

You don’t know what she’s talking about, but you don’t care. You turn around, feeling for a moment a clarity you’ve never felt before. “Fuck you, Shelby.” You mutter before walking away.

You don’t return to class; you don’t even stop by your locker to get your things.

Martha finds you almost ten hours later. You’re at the trailer park, behind a huge chunk of junk, laying down on the bed of an old truck. There’s broken glass on the dirt all around you and your knuckles are caked in dried up blood and bruises. You’re not proud of it, but at least you didn’t punch the girl with the hazel eyes.

“Toni…” you hear it in her voice, you don’t even need to look at her face. She pities you. Just like everyone else. Poor little Toni, too poor to buy her own textbooks, too dumb to amount for anything, too angry to have friends, too mean to become someone important, too _anything_. Always too much of something.

Martha convinces you to go with her to Prom, somehow. You can’t tell her about what happened, about what ticked you off this time. Even if you hate Shelby for becoming the exact thing you feared she would, you’re not enough of a monster to out her like that. You’d never. Even if it’s just Martha who would understand and even support Shelby.

So, you go with Martha, and Fatin and Leah, and Rachel and Nora and that boyfriend of hers – Quinn? – and Dot and everyone’s there. You wear a suit if only to spite the parents and chaperones. You borrowed it, of course, from Fatin’s brother. It’s a little embarrassing being the same size as an eleven-year-old, but you look good, so you don’t think about it much.

And that’s when you see her.

You’ve been joking around, talking with Dot about something, but as soon as you lay eyes on her at the dance floor, you don’t remember what. Dot shakes you by the shoulder, but you push her off of you instantly, albeit a little more forcefully than necessary.

She’s wearing a blue dress, long all the way down to her high heels, back uncovered and a V-neck that exposes her cleavage in all the right ways. And you boil. You fear there’s actual smoke coming off of you by the look Dot’s giving you.

Because he’s got his arms around her the same way you wish you could, and he’s laughing and he’s _charming_ and she’s laughing along. And you can’t even begin to fathom what must be going through her head. Doesn’t she miss you? Doesn’t she think about you? Doesn’t she wish it was your arms twirling her around, your lips brushing against her cheeks as you pull her closer, your chest she presses against as she bursts out in laughter from something you whispered in her ear?

You approach them in a second. It’s almost comical, the way they turn in unison towards you. “We’re done.” You mutter, anger seeping through every pore. Shelby’s face crumbles while Andrew just stares at you dumbfounded.

You’re out the door in a second, pushing past faceless bodies. Someone ends up on the floor, multiple voices call out to you, but you don’t listen.

You end up in front of Shelby’s house, somehow. You must’ve walked about two miles since Shelby lives far from school, in a gated community full of huge, two-story houses with perfect front lawns and shiny cars. You sit in front of her house and watch through the windows. There are lights on a few of them, but the curtains are drawn. It’s silly because Shelby’s at the dance. You ask yourself what you’re doing there. It’s senseless. Even more, it’s dangerous. What if her family sees you and ask what you’re doing there? What if a neighbor calls the police? You can tell just by the sweat on your brow you don’t exactly look like the kind of people who’re allowed in this sort of place. But still, you sit down at the curb and observe the house. It’s like a sick dream. You imagine yourself being welcomed there. You imagine yourself coming home with Shelby by your arm, her father welcoming you both with a hug and a joke, her siblings striking up a conversation as you all go sit at the living room. Her mom asks you both about school and, somehow, you can tell her you’re doing better. And maybe her brother’s into basketball and you can play together on the street after lunch, or maybe her sister. All the while Shelby cheers you on and laughs at your silly dances and faces. Oh, how you loved to make her laugh. But you know it’s not possible. Family, you know, is not something nice. It’s not soft or welcoming. Families are complicated, they’re a burden. They’re someone to answer to, someone always looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re doing the right thing, you’re controlling yourself, you’re keeping up the schoolwork, you’re behaving. That’s something, at least, you and Shelby used to agree on.

It takes a long time for your tears to stop from falling. Your feet ache. For a moment you think about how you’ll explain to Fatin how ruined her brother’s suit is. She’ll probably brush it off and say they’ve already bought him a new one. Fucking one percent.

The sky is so dark by now, the lamps so brightly lit, that you’ve lost track of time. Maybe it’s midnight, maybe it’s four AM. Maybe you should go home. _What’s home?_ A voice in your head retorts. You feel the knot in your throat tighten so you shake your head and jump to your feet. Time to start walking again, running.

You make it about two blocks down from Shelby’s house when a car stops beside you. But it’s not like all the cars you’ve seen around here. It’s not shiny or new or classy. It’s old, actually, and an ugly shade of peach. You stop and watch it, curious, as the window slowly rolls down.

“Hey.” The girl calls. You know her, a small part of your brain insists, but you can’t put a name to the face, “Hey.” You call back, feeling a little confused, a little restless, a little reckless, a little aloof. Your voice sounds crooked and raw.

The girl chuckles lightly. She’s got dark, slanted eyes that watch you carefully as her lips turn up in a self-conscious manner. “I thought I’d be all cool, pulling up beside you, but I didn’t consider I’d be pulling up in _this_.”

She gestures to the car, but you think nothing bad of it. On the contrary, it’s refreshing. It has character, something most people in these types of neighborhoods lack of. You hate that. And so, you tell her that, “I like it, actually. Has character.”

“It was my grandma’s. They finally took her license away about six months ago so now I get to drive this old coffeemaker.”

You laugh and your throat, raw, hurts a little. But it’s a good kind of hurt for a change.

“Need a ride?” she asks, a hopeful look in her dark eyes. It reminds you a little too much of _her_ , so you look away for a moment. You breathe deep and hard, in and out, and try to rid your mind of thoughts of her. She’s at the dance, after all. She’s not thinking of you, so why should you think of her?

You accept her ride, _Regan_ ’s ride, you think as you finally remember her name. And you accept all her rides after that one.

//

Summer turns out not quite what you expected.

It’s hard and light at the same time. You still go to Fatin’s parties and hang out with the team and Martha and go out with Regan and when Leah announces the trip to her grandparent’s beach house – the trip the eight of you have been going on since freshmen year – you go on that, too. Those are the worst two weeks of summer. Shelby’s there. And you haven’t talked since before Prom and, of course, you don’t talk then. But the rest pick up on the tension. Maybe they don’t realize what exactly happened, but there’s a riff in the group and you blame yourself.

You leave early, using Regan as an excuse. And when you announce it, while you’re all chilling by the beach, your eyes land on hers for a moment and you catch a touch of her hurt. You look away, clench your teeth, and stand up. Dusting off the sand, you head back to the house to get your things. Regan comes over in her car to pick you up. You’re going on a vacation with her family.

You think you’ll hate it. You expect to hate it. You hate family. And from what you’ve heard from Regan, her family’s not exactly picture perfect. But you don’t.

Her dad’s a little distant, like you think most dads are. He concentrates on barbecuing and resting by the pool with a beer on his hand. Sometimes, he talks with you about basketball. It’s not close, but its nice. Her mom’s the opposite. She’s considerate and she’s always offering you something to eat. She comments on how thin you are right before serving you the biggest piece of stake and a huge bowl of veggies. Regan laughs. One of her brothers spends all the time in his room, reading and listening to music as if he was allergic to the sun. But you can see in him the ghost of his addiction and it remind you of your mom, so you don’t spend much time with him. The other one sits by the pool and insists on competing with you on who does the best backflip onto the pool. Him you like.

But by far, the best parts are the nights. You go out stargazing almost every evening. Regan’s parents rented a cabin in the woods with a pool in the backyard, so you cuddle on one of the deck chairs and stare up into the night sky. She tells you about all the myths behind the constellations. Orion and Artemis, Cerberus, Centaurus, Draco and the Hydra and so much more.

But still, there’s an ache in your chest that you can’t get rid of. Not there, in the middle of the woods, and not back at the trailer park, once you return.

You focus on Regan. On getting to know her, exploring her kisses and her touches, her laughter, her interests, her peeves, everything. But it’s not the same. And the feeling grows larger and larger till it’s screaming at you since the moment you wake up until you’re going back to sleep. _She’s not her._

And you check your Instagram feed and there she is. Happy-go-lucky Shelby. At church camp, covered in dirt with her dad on some bikes, at some charity thing with Andrew. _With Andrew_. Your stomach clenches every time you catch those hazel-green eyes looking back at you through the screen. She looks perfect with him in a way you know she could never look with you by the hand. She looks classic, appropriate, she looks like the poster child of perfect Christian youth.

You ask about her once, sleeping over at Martha’s. You’ve been doing it more and more as of late, leaving the trailer park with a filled pack and staying at Martha’s for three, maybe even four days. Martha’s mom always insists – like Martha used to – that your foster parents will be worried, that they care for you, so you should go back. You know better, but you still humor her.

Martha says she looks happy and that Andrew looks like a handsome, good guy, but that Dot doesn’t trust him. Something about lying and buying weed. She says it like it’s some gossip you’re both just going over, like they’re any couple from school. You pretend as if it is. You pretend as if even thinking about them doesn’t makes you want to retch and cry and scream. Your brain tells you you deserve it. _serves you good for even thinking you’d be good enough for her._ You never touch the subject again and when its time for the group to hang out and Martha notices you’re quieter than normal, broodier, and that you don’t look in Shelby’s way, she doesn’t comment on it. You’re thankful.

//

And then August rolls around hotter than usual. The trailer park simmers in the brazing heat of the sun. Your skin is peeling off and itchy with all the time you spend outside, playing basketball and avoiding whatever happens with your foster family’s drama.

You notice her absence one especially bad morning.

By absence, of course, you mean from your feed. She publishes absolutely everything, and you have to admit, you’ve developed a strange fascination, still paying attention to everything she does. It’s a morbid sort of relief. Knowing she’s still out there. But then you notice it. No stories, no posts. For a while now. She also misses a few parties, and no one knows anything about her.

What could’ve happened?

If you had to guess she’s in some third-world country with Andrew and her church doing some charity work in a village with no connection. But a part of you – that damned part of you that’s always buzzing – wonders if maybe something happened.

But you continue on with your life. She’s no longer in it so there’s no reason to worry. And when you think about it, she never really was in it to begin with. If you’d asked anyone, they would’ve told you they were no more than two reluctant acquaintances, forced to hang out due to mutual friends. So, you throw yourself into everything going on around you. Regan, Martha, basketball, repeat. But it’s not enough.

You’re walking through the halls of a packed Walmart when it happens. Regan had insisted you go with her shopping for school supplies. You’re both going into Senior year and you didn’t have the heart to tell her you didn’t have any money to buy yourself the stuff, so you just say you’ve already bough it all and trail behind her as she picks pencils and cute notebooks for every subject. She’s checking out a stack of erasers and you, bored, take out your phone to scroll for a moment. You open Instagram, and suddenly there she is. You’re ashamed to say your breath catches in your throat when you read her username on your feed. It’s just a stupid photo of a sunset on a beach. _See? I was right, she was just at some weird Christian retreat or charity or something._

You look up only to find Regan watching you, a couple of erasers in her left hand.

“What is it?” she asks, smiling lightly. You can tell you’re blushing and rush to find an excuse. You stutter. “Nothing, just a meme, it’s not important.”

Regan laughs, reaching forward and pulling your phone from your hands, “I bet it’s porn you filthy–”

Her words are cut short as her eyes find the screen. You don’t even fight to get it back. It was bound to happen, after all.

 _You break everything you touch_.

“Shelby.” She mutters. You look away, your cheeks ablaze. It feels as if your body’s deciding weather to be angry or defensive. Meanwhile you’re just tired.

She drives you home later that night, after you’ve talked. You both cry. You deny everything. You’re not hung up on Shelby, you tell her. But the words sound fake even before you hear them out loud. And you’re angry. With yourself, with Shelby, with Regan, with everything.

You regret it immediately, the swing to her car. But rage takes over you – that same rage that has been bottled up inside you since before you’d even met either of the girls, the same rage you’ve been harvesting since you were an infant, since before you knew what rage _was_ , what it meant.

You’re a monster, surprised to find Martha – good old Martha – looking for you the next day.

“Regan called.” She says and a wave of nauseating guilt overcomes you, yet again.

//

School starts and the first thing you notice is the absence of a blonde ponytail at the front of the class. Mrs. Klein calls the row and when she gets to the G, there is no Shelby.

“Shelby changed homerooms?” Martha asks beside you. You keep your eyes locked on Mrs. Klein’s forehead, unsure of weather you’ll be able to control your emotions if you look away.

“Why d’you think she did that?”

You have a theory, of course.

//

You break by the third week. Martha’s mom offered a steady bed for you the weekend after you started school, so you’ve been rooming with Martha for two weeks now, and you just snap. Her mom told you to go to sleep about half an hour ago, but you still lay in the gloomy room, discussing little nothings as the night crawls along. And then Martha mentions the Christian youth Club, something about Shelby asking for her help with an event, and you’re lost.

You feel yourself choking on unspoken words. You try to swallow but it’s useless.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

You surprise yourself with how coherent and detached you sound.

As soon as the lock clicks behind you, the tears flow and then there’s nothing else but your own arms, tightly wrapped around yourself as you whimper and shiver in the dark bathroom. It takes you about two minutes to calm down enough to turn on the light, only to be met by a huge smiling face. You almost scream. Marcus. Martha’s dream guy – an actor from an old movie she’d seen. She’d printed out his face and naked torso and had hung it on the back of her bathroom’s door. You almost laugh. And then you decide, why the hell not.

You tell him everything. You know it’s silly and stupid to be talking to a picture of a man, but you just have to tell _someone._

It’s a long night but, as you wind down, tears all shed, heaving breathes calmed, you return to Martha’s room. She’s already fallen asleep and so you crawl into you bed and close your eyes. sleep finds you fast, faster than it has on for a long time.

And for once, it’s not restless.

//

You pay attention during the few classes you share. Shelby’s smart – freakishly smart –, so that only leaves you with a couple of classes with her. Chemistry and Trig. You’re struggling on both, if you’re being honest, but you still deviate your attention from the board to her bright blonde ponytail, to her freshly manicured French tips as she raises her hand to answer a question, to the back of her jacket as she leans over her desk to try and figure out an especially difficult exercise.

And you notice it. the bags under her eyes, the lack of a cheery ‘good morning y’all!’, the sighs and the furtive looks. You look away, of course. But you notice.

And it gives you hope. And you hate it because now you’re looking forward to Chemistry – fucking Chemistry – and Trig – Trig! – the same way you used to look forward to homeroom every day of junior year. And you’re afraid. You try to push it down, but experience has somehow made you dumber because you surrender easily. You surrender to the daydreaming, to the longing, to the looking and the play that seems to be developing between the two of you, yet again. She looks and you turn, she turns, and you look. It’s like a dance you’re doing with your eyes, hazel searching for brown, only to turn away from it once its caught.

You make a decision, then. It’s all or nothing and, for a moment, you’re brave enough to decide that maybe you’re worth it. Maybe you do deserve to have something good – but only if you put in the effort. And you think, Shelby’s worth the effort.

//

Friday night, you march down to her house. You don’t realize she’s having a party until she opens up the door and you find yourself intruding on a Christian Youth Club’s meeting.

“Toni.” She’s shocked and a little out of breath, and you smile for a moment, realizing how ridiculous it is that you’re _there_ , on her porch, interrupting her meeting.

“Shelby… can we talk?” and you bite your lip and try as hard as you can to be honest, for her to really see how you feel. You implore with your eyebrows, feeling small and vulnerable and open that the urge to run it almost as physical as an itch right on her lower back. But you won’t. you’ve gone through this in your mind for the past several weeks, doubting, planning. But there’s only today now. This is the last time you wonder what would happen. Now you can only think of what’s happening.

Shelby doesn’t answer for a moment, instead looking back into her living room where the rest of the club sit. Stuck-up kids with polo shirts and pristine, floral dresses watching you with a mixture of disgust and confusion.

For a moment you think she’ll blow you off, tell you to fuck off, fuck you, fuck everything. Tell you to leave. It’s the only logical thing. You hurt her, why the hell would she listen to you?

She wraps the white cardigan she’s wearing tightly against her chest before saying, eyes locked somewhere amongst your sneakers, “Backyard.”

She locks the door and you’re left wondering if it’s actually a good thing or not. But you’re already here, and you’ve given everything you’ve got already. You’re at your last straw and there’s a peace in having nothing else to lose, but so much to earn. The worse has already happened, the plane has crashed, so to speak, and now there’s just you and her, alone, left to figure out what to do.

“I had to find out through _Martha_.” She’s angry, and rightfully so. You stay silent, knowing she’s not nearly done with what she wants to say to you, “I had to find out that my _girlfriend_ –” she mutters the word in a whisper, angry and seething but low, “– _ex_ -girlfriend, had slept with someone else? And it’s not like she told me in private, no. No, no, no, she told the whole group, so I just had to _pretend_ to be happy for you along with the rest, I pretended to be _happy_ for you!”

“I’m sorry.” It’s nothing more than a whisper. You’re trembling against all your might, looking anywhere but into Shelby’s eyes. You force yourself to look up, reminding yourself that you’re the one to fault, you caused all of this. You must face your mistakes, own them now before it’s too late.

“Sorry?” she asks. Her eyes are wide and angry, her face is red. She’d be screaming, you know, were you anywhere else. You wonder if her parents are home and for a moment realize how stupid it was to come to her house. But you know if you’d asked her to talk somewhere, you’d chicken out. You had to come here, to talk to her in person, not text, no phone call. She had to know you were for real.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it Toni.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

You don’t have an answer. _Because I’m dumb? Because I hate myself? Because I made a mistake?_ They all sound like excuses and you’re not here to excuse yourself. You hate excuses. It’s everything you’ve ever received your whole life. Shelby deserves better.

“You deserved better,” So you tell her, “I’m not–”

“You were everything I ever wanted.”

“I fucked up, Shelby.” Your voice breaks and you hate it.

“Yeah,” and she laughs. A watery thing, frail and wet and gone in a second, “yeah you fucked up.”

“You say your prayers with that mouth?” You can’t help the teasing. She looks at you with a tender annoyance that doesn’t really translate to a smile, but it tries.

“I messed up.” You say, because now you’ve got the courage and you fear it’ll leave you if you wait too long, like waiting for the perfect angle to shoot as the opposing team runs towards you to try and block. The net’s clear, so you just shoot, “I saw you with him and I could only see all the ways I didn’t match up with you. I’m not a boy, I’m not Christian, I’m not– I don’t fit into your life. I saw you dancing with him and I just, I thought maybe if I was out of the picture… maybe you were happier without me. In the long run, I mean.”

Shelby chuckles, shaking her head. You’re confused.

“I _was_ happy with you.” she says, silent tears falling down her cheeks, “And I tried my best not to hurt you because I– because I loved you. I was dealing with my family just fine I was– Prom was just–”

“I know! I was dumb and reacted without thinking.”

“I wanted nothing more than to run after you, Toni.”

You look away, unable to hold yourself together any longer. You feel the tears run down your cheeks and silently curse yourself.

“Shelby I– I’m not asking for anything like forgiveness or anything– I know I fucked up. I just wanted you to know that I am sorry, and I do– I _love_ you. And if there’s anything I could change; it would be what I did to you. The only thing I wanna do is make it up to you, Shelby. Somehow.”

Shelby’s silent for a few moments. You forget all about your atheist beliefs and pray to whoever’s up there, you pray and promise your life for Shelby Goodkind’s forgiveness.

“I could use a friend.” She says, voice small and unsure. You’re nodding before she even finishes speaking, “I can be a friend.” you say. She nods.

She goes back inside a minute after and you’re left standing on her backyard, cold in the early October air. You’re tired – exhausted really – but you’re hopeful and, for the first time in a while, you trust that feeling and allow it, for once, to pull a smile on your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering making a second part but I'm not sure so let me know if you'd like to read that! Probably exporing how they could earn each other's trust back and all that. Come talk to be on tumblr at yourstrullyme if you'd like, too!


	2. Dorothea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, I got a little carried away. The Chapter's title is inspired by Taylor Swift's song 'Dorothea' because it's such a Shelby song that I couldn't not. Also, thanks to idontlikedots on tumblr for their goodfoe playlist, it was the only thing I listened to while writing this, on repeat, multiple times. So yeah, enjoy!

You try to think about yourself in Toni’s eyes. It’s an exercise you’ve gotten tired of doing, but it gives you a sense of calmness, it grounds you, in a way you can’t ground yourself. It gives you enough distance to forget, even for a moment, the _hate._ It’s the only kindness you can think of. And you miss kindness.

What would she say if she saw you right now? You think of her voice, the rasp, harshness of it.

_It’s okay, Shelby. You’ll be okay._

You snort and it’s ugly and a sob follows close behind. You reach up to clean you face with the back of your hand and it comes off covered in snot. You cry harder, losing any kind of semblance of control, struggling to get your convulsing body still. It’s been years since you cried this hard. You’re heaving and a mess and the only thing you want is _her_. You picture her in front of you, her calloused hands on your shoulders as she kneels beside you, trying to get you to look into her eyes, trying to calm you down. You think of big, brown eyes, eyebrows pushed together in concern, a narrow nose and pursed lips.

It only makes it worse, though. She’s not here. _She’s not here, she’s not here, she’s not here._

So, you close your arms around yourself and lean forward until your forehead presses against the cool tiles. At least like this the sound is muffled, your mouth pressing against the tule of your ruined dress. You can’t even tell if what’s on your lips are tears or snot or saliva. You don’t care.

Your whole body’s starting to get cramped, but you ignore it. You’ve been sitting – kneeling, falling, begging, is there a difference? – in the cold floor of your bathroom for long enough for your feet to fall asleep. You don’t know how much time passes before you’re able to stand up, to breathe in, to stop shivering.

As blood starts coursing again, you try and breath. Your dress is a mess, your high heels lost somewhere between the top of the stairs and the closed door you’ve currently got your hand against for support. You stare into the face in the mirror and wonder how anybody could look at you and feel anything even remotely _good_ towards you. You whole face is puffed beyond recognition from all that crying, your make-up has run all over, there’s snot coming out of your nose. You breathe in hard to try and get rid of it but it’s still there. Disgusting. Your hair is all over the place, frizzy and sticky and _not_ how you’d combed it only a couple of hours ago. And just to make matters worse, you spit out your prosthetics into your hand and smile. There’s no humor in your face, only a savage kind of aggression, like a hurt wild animal, ready to bite whatever comes close. The two gaps in your mouth stare back at you like neon signs. _You’ll never be perfect, Shelby dear, you’ll always be_ faulty. _You’ll never be enough. And they can’t love you if you’re not enough now, can they? You’ll only disappoint them, time and time again as you’ve done before. You must earn their love and with us, you never will._

You hate it so much you scream. And even the scream’s scant. It’s high-pitched and dry and so pathetic you have to look away.

_Pathetic, wrong, stupid, broken._

_Wrong._

The word snaps against your brain once, twice, thrice. It’s all you can think of. Your mind, as if on autopilot, tries to go back, back into memories you know you can’t bear to think of, not now. Of all the times you’ve been wrong. Of all the faces you’ve let down.

You remember your father, an expression so foreign in his face you though for a moment it must’ve been a joke. The words coming out of his mouth so broken. He felt for you at the same time he addressed you as a stranger. He gave you the same look he reserved for those who reached out to him, to those _outsiders_ who only deserved his pity. And, for a moment, that’s how you saw him, too. A stranger, speaking of how alone you’ll be. Of how condemned you are. Begging him to love you like he used to, like he did when you were his daughter.

Becca’s face blends in with his and suddenly you’re out on your back porch, screaming at her, putting all the blame on her small, frail shoulders. She’d come over to help. She’d been worried about you. And you’d only saved yourself. You’d shoved her under to save yourself as soon as you could. And for what? What’s so good about _you_ that deserves saving? _Nothing_ , you respond.

Toni’s face is the clearest. You saw her only a few hours ago, after all. She’s angry like you’ve only ever seen her a few times before. You can tell she’s lost it; you can tell she’s all fire and passion and impulse. She’s like an exposed nerve, you’ve come to think, a livewire, unable to avoid the release of explosive energy once it’s been touched. And you know she doesn’t mean it. You know she’s in the heat of the moment. But then you come home and Dad and Andrew start chatting and your father’s _smiling_ at you. You haven’t seen his smile since sophomore year. Not since Becca.

Becca, Dad, Toni, Andrew, _Dad_.

You’re pulling at your hair before you even notice it. it’s ugly and knotted and you just can’t seem to get it to untangle. You reach for your comb but it’s no use. After three strokes it gets so stuck it’s unmovable. And you’re screaming, and you hear your mom calling your name, fighting against the locked bathroom door, but you can’t stop.

Later that night you lay in bed in a daze. Your hair spreads around you face like a halo, chopped and shorter than you’ve ever had it. But that’s the last thing on your mind.

There’s a pain in your chest that you can’t get rid of. A pressure that just doesn’t leave, no matter how many deep breaths you take. _And it’s okay,_ you think, _I deserve it_. Becca, Dad, Toni. They’re all your fault, after all. Their pain _must_ be yours to bear. It’s the only way you can think of to atone for you sins.

And you choose. You choose him. You choose family. You choose Andrew. You choose the path of least resistance, because you’re _tired._ Tired of hurting people, tired of hurting, and tired of trying.

You block Toni’s number that night, with shaking fingers and an exhaustion you’re sure no human should be able to bear alone.

//

When Andrew asks you out, you’re not surprised. But of course, you act the part. You jump and hug him, _‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’_ you call, feeling a guilty sense of relief at the thought of being _right._ Of being chosen, of being enough, if only for a moment.

Soon enough you start to regret it a little bit. But it’s not bad. He’s a little dumb but you’re used to it. You’re used to people talking about superficial stuff, about themselves, people not listening, not getting your references, not understanding you. Besides, he’s quite handsome and when you meet up with Martha, Nora and Leah and the four of you gush over him, it almost feels normal. Just a normal girl in love with a normal boy.

//

Summer’s even more of a rollercoaster than junior year, if that’s even possible.

Toni skips most of the invitations to hang out with the group. The rest of the girls explain to you that she’s got a _girlfriend_ now and you choke, and your heart stops, and your whole body goes numb, but you smile. You know how to speak pleasantries with no air in your lungs, you know how to push a smile through frozen lips.

That night you cancel your date with Andrew. He complains but you barely notice the notifications on your phone. You cry yourself to sleep – _so pathetic_ –, but the next day you steel yourself and decide to put her out of your mind while you brush your teeth, the same way your eyes skip over the absent pearly things in your mouth. And it’s like a wall is built in your mind, and she stays out of it. It scares you how fast and easy it is to slip back into your old skin, back into the perfect little pageant queen, the girl who knew nothing of Toni Shalifoe. But it’s for the best and, for once, you’re thankful for it. Thankful for the numbness and for the distance you start to feel from the world, and from yourself.

Your father’s happy. He’s happy and he’s hugging you more and he invites you onto important Church activities – ‘Bring Andrew, too!’ He says –, introducing you to his friends. He’s proud and you wonder if he’s already forgotten. If he’s already forgiven you. If he ever will.

But you don’t dwell much on that. You never dwell much on anything nowadays. It serves no good, you think; the Lord works in mysterious ways and better to trust Him than to waste time pondering on His actions.

You don’t question what goes on around you and it’s suddenly so easy you even forget what it used to be like before. It’s like you’ve finally cut off that annoying little edge of the last puzzle piece, now being able to fit it into place and, finally, see the picture completed.

You spend the first few weeks between dates with Andrew and Christian Youth Club meetings and Church events. You’ve started to call him Andy in private. It makes you feel good. And if you stiffen when you feel his clammy hand reach for your waist, or shiver when his arm sets around your shoulders, you tell yourself its due to the surprise. It’s due to you not being used to so much physical contact.

You don’t even dare to think of another time, where contact was the only way you’d feel safe. Where small hands and long, knotty fingers were the source of so much kindness, of so much warmth and so much _love._

You finally see her again at Leah’s grandparent’s house but, even then, she only stays for a week and a day. Regan, her girlfriend, comes by to pick her up and swoop her away. You try your hardest not to let the hurt show. You’d been wanting to talk to her, maybe settle things, clear the air. As much as you’ve tried to put her out of your mind, your heart still jumps when one of the girls mentions her name, or her profile appears on your feed, and you’re not sure as to what it means. And she’s always managed to help you out like that. To help you make sense of things. But she doesn’t give you the chance.

When she leaves you tell yourself it’s for the best. She hates you now, you can tell. She can’t even look at you and it’s like you’re both back at the beginning. She can’t even stand you and it’s pathetic how much you silently wish to take it all back. How much you silently pray for a way out, for a magical solution, for a miracle.

Your father has told you time and time again – usually when discussing your dentures – that the Lord only makes beautiful things, that the Lord works in mysterious ways, that the Lord doesn’t grant miracles just to anyone, and that miracles don’t look like a wish granted by a genie.

Sometimes you wonder if the _Lord’s ever wr_ – No.

 _Gosh,_ you can’t even bring yourself to think it through. But you know it’s there. The frustration, the pain, the shame, and the impotence.

And no matter how many Sundays you spend with Andrew’s hand in yours and your Dad’s approving gaze on you, as you all sit at the pew and listen to the priest; no matter how many kisses he gives you; no matter how many breakfasts you spend laughing along with your siblings, or how many evenings you spend helping your Mom out with some paperwork or watching TV. No matter how much you try – and _oh God_ how do you try. You think that if Jesus gave participation awards, you’d get the biggest one.

But no matter how much effort you put into it, you always go back to kind, fiery brown eyes and a crooked smile. Small hands in ours, wiry legs draped over your lap as you cuddle closer, her mouth on your skin, and the feel of every single edge of hers under your fingers.

//

August comes in hot. Hotter than it’s been in a while. And you’re just lounging by the pool in Andrew’s backyard while he’s swimming laps in the water when you receive a call. You think nothing of it, the ID saying it’s your Dad. You sit up as your fingers curl around the ringing phone and you raise it to you ear at the same time you pull off your sunglasses.

“Hello?” you answer.

“You need to come home _right now_ , Shelby.”

//

A picture.

It’s not even a pic someone else took of you, it’s a picture you took yourself. A polaroid. And when he shows it to you, you can’t help the first thing on your mind being _Gosh_ , how you’d forgotten how _stunning_ she actually was. With the curls and the eyes and the–

But then the guilt sets in, the shame.

Naked doesn’t really cut it. You feel exposed, like they’re doing an x-ray on all your darkest corners. Your skin itches in disgust as you realize what has happened. You want to run away and hide but you can’t. You’re too much of a coward to even dare move a finger. So, you stay, and bow your head, and reach up for your cross and mumble a prayer as your eyes fill with tears. You want to throw up, to scream, to cry out, but you just… you just _stay._ Like a dog, faithfully obedient. Dumb and shameful and loyal. Always loyal.

She’s kissing you in the picture and, oh God, you’re kissing her back.

It’s a polaroid you’d kept under your mattress. A token of what once was. You’re angry, for a moment, considering the breach of your privacy that had to happen for them to find it. But it doesn’t really matter.

Because, once again, you don’t recognize the look your father gives you. Your logic brain says he’s disappointed, he’s disgusted, he’s hurt. He must be. But all you see is foreign. You somehow can’t make sense of his features, of the pull on his lips, of the crunch of his eyebrows, of the tense muscles on his jaw.

They send you away and promise you’ll be better once you return. You don’t see Andrew again until school starts, or anyone else for that matter. And even when you do catch sight of him one September morning, he doesn’t even spare you a glance. You guess you’ve broken up.

There are rumors as to where you went. Your family says it was to a retreat, a vacation. You know better, but honestly? You’re too tired to even correct them.

Maybe it was a retreat, after all. You can’t really remember much, it’s like everything was covered by a thick fog that prevented you from moving, or seeing, or talking much. You remember the word fun, but you don’t know why. It’s not connected to any particular feeling. But you remember hearing it a lot. _This is so fun! You’ll have so much fun here, just wait and see!_ It’s all a blur of prayers and kids talking in circles and a strange, bare room you had to share with a girl with very short hair. Her smile was pretty, you remember, and her cheeks were the color of the desert, tan and endless, the way Toni’s used to get when it was summer, and the sun tainted her skin.

But you know now, that’s not a good thought. God looks down on thoughts like those. You must pray, you think, and beg for forgiveness. It’s the only thing on your mind once you leave that place. Forgiveness.

You’re not sure whose forgiveness you’re looking for, though. They say God’s, but you’re not entirely sure that’s true.

//

You’ve been meaning to talk to her when you come back, but you’re too much of a coward to approach her first. You spend hours upon hours wondering how best to say it.

And when she comes knocking at your door, and you see those eyes up close again, so big and full of passion and depth and _hope_ , you’re not strong enough to do it.

 _Friends,_ you say. Because you can’t bear breaking her heart again. You can’t bear going back down that same road again.

Maybe as friends she’ll let it go, she’ll let you be.

You know she won’t, deep down.

And deeper down, although you don’t even dream of admitting it, of thinking it, you know it. You don’t want her to.

That night you fall asleep in prayer. You ask for forgiveness and for guidance, as you do every night. You mom always said that’s the best way to start. And you cry even though you’re uncertain as to why you’re crying.

//

You start your friendship with an evening at the drive-in theater that’s been set up for Halloween. They’ll be passing horror movies all throughout October and you settle on Scream, Friday at 6 PM. You take your car, obviously. You tell your parents you’re going out with Jane, from the Youth Club. They trust Jane so they send you off with smiles and ‘give her our love’.

You pick her up and she’s fidgety. At some point between the last time you two really talked, back in junior year, and now, she’s moved into Martha’s house. You’re happy about that. That trailer park did nothing but harm to her. But you don’t mention it. You smile and joke a little, and tease, and she smiles, and you try not to think about the fluttering in the pit of your stomach. You make small talk until you reach the drive-in at the edge of town.

Small talk. Not even when you didn’t know each other did you do that.

She’s nervous, you can tell. She keeps playing with the hem of her jacket, leg bouncing every few minutes. You can’t blame her. Not with everything behind the two of you. Not with how weird you know you’re acting.

For a moment you wish you could just erase it all and start over.

As the movie starts and you settle, you wonder what that would be like. In a different world, in a different universe. Would you have been free to act and love and care for one another? Without harm, without pain, without mistrust?

You shake your head. “Silly me,” you mutter, pushing the thought aside as if it’s a piece of stale bread. Toni looks at you strangely, but you just smile, “I was thinking about school,” you explain with a small, airy laugh, “worrying about next week’s chem test, while I should just be enjoying the movie, right?”

She smiles lightly, “Yeah.”

You think maybe she can tell. A small part of you begs her to see it, to _see_ you. But she just turns back to the huge screen in front of you. There’s something going on up there, but you can’t really tell what. You’re too concerned with her eyes, the light shining off of them.

This was a bad idea, you think.

Your palms start to sweat so you try to dry them out on your pants.

“Everything alright, Shel?”

You start to panic then. Why? You’re not sure. There’s something in her eyes, in the way she just looks at you, so open and trusting and _caring_. You broke her heart, why doesn’t she hate you?

“I’m alright, don’t worry ‘bout it.” and your drawl thickens in the way it always does when you’re nervous. But she doesn’t comment. She nods, offering a small smile before returning to the movie.

You drop her off without saying anything. She asks if you’d like to hang out again and you tell her you’ll text her. _You’re a coward, you’re a coward, you’re a coward._

You avoid her stare for a whole two weeks before she gets the chance to talk to you again. This time, you say it.

//

You’re at Fatin’s house. It’s only a small gathering, only the eight of you. you’re pregaming for a Halloween party at one of Fatin’s rich friend’s house. The sun’s setting low even though it’s only seven PM and you think about how lovely it is that winter’s coming soon. You love the snow. Back in Texas, where you used to live all throughout elementary and middle school, there was no cold, no snow, no shivers and warm drinks and fireplaces, and snowmen. There was only the brazing heat of the summer and the quieter heat of the winter.

“Alright but fourteen! Please, you can’t tell me you enjoyed being fourteen! Freshmen year?!” Leah’s laughing, one of those whole-body laughs that has her leaning over, face flushed, as she dares Fatin to contradict her. The taller girl rolls her eyes as Leah’s laugh spreads throughout the group. Even you have to admit that fourteen was a pretty rough age.

“Alright yes _but_ think about this: the year you got your first period.” A smug smile appears on Fatin’s face as the rest ‘ooh!’ and ‘aah!’ at her response.

“I have to admit it’s a tough call.” Dot chuckles before sipping her drink.

“That has _got_ to be the worse, hands down!”

You look away for a moment. You don’t know why but you can’t seem to get into the general mood. You were excited to come. A night out with the girls was exactly what you needed after a week full of homework and two tests. But now, in the small circle of chairs and couches you’ve all formed in Fatin’s terrace, with the non-alcoholic drink in your hand, you’re just bored.

“I got my first period in Biology at _first period_ ,” Rachel laughs, sparing Nora a challenging look before adding, “and Nora was so mad I got it before she did!”

“I was not!”

But then Toni’s eyes catch yours. She’s looking at you from across the circle and she’s not laughing along with the rest. Her eyes are set on yours and when you look back, she doesn’t look away. It’s almost as if she was waiting for you to notice. You want her to stop as soon as you see her. For some reason, your blood instantly boils under her gaze. You want her to mind her own business, to laugh along with Leah and Nora and the rest; to forget you even exist, to leave you be. _To hate you._ You deserve it, after all.

You clench your teeth and ball up your hands into fists on your lap.

Her eyebrows push together in a silent question, _‘You okay?’_

You stand up suddenly.

“Woah, wait. Are periods also taboo for Christians? I thought it was a good thing, signaling your womanhood and whatnot.” Nora laughs. But you don’t listen.

You’re off the terrace in seconds, scrambling towards the closest bathroom. Your hand grips the doorknob and slam it back behind you. The lock clicks and for a moment you breathe out. The air leaves your lungs with ease but when you try to inhale again, you find yourself at a loss. There is no air in the room, or maybe your throat’s closing up. There’s a heavy pressure constricting your skin, making you itchy and hot all over. You’re desperate. You turn on the faucet and splash some water onto your burning skin. The sound of running water spraying against the ceramic clears the ringing from your ears, but it does little to atone the sensation of your body burning up in flames.

Your time has come early, you think. You beg for more time, clinging to your pathetic little cross. But you’re choking still, you vision blurring and your fingers tingling, like they’re falling asleep. God has decided enough is enough, you think. There is no action in this earth that you can do to change His mind, to change what you’ve done. You’ll die now, you think as you heave, and you shudder, and you shiver, and you cling to the sink to try and support your trembling legs. You’ll die and you’ll go to Hell. That’s the only place that can teach you to be good, you think. Because you’re _not_ good. You’re everything _but_ good. You’re selfish and unkind and you don’t fear God the way you should, not really anymore, and you hate your father and you’re a– you’re–

“Shelby, open the fucking door!”

There’s a knocking coming from the door. It dissonates with the rhythmic drum of the blood coursing through your ears. You focus on it and on the voice it accompanies. The words sound strange. _Shelby? Door? What is it talking about?_

“C’mon Goodkind, we just want to help, open up!” this time it sounds deeper, calmer.

“Shelby, _please!_ ” the first voice speaks again, pleading. It sounds familiar and you smile. You catch your own eye on the reflection of the mirror and wonder how you came to be what you are. There’s a small trail of mascara running down your cheeks, your pupils are blown wide and you wonder where all the color in your irises went.

“Shelby!”

You snap out of it then. Not sure as to what did it, but you click back into place in an instant.

“Toni,” You call. The banging stops, “just Toni.”

There’s a ruffling sound coming from the other side followed by silence. You breathe in deep and then reach for the door. You breathe in and out once before opening it.

“I was just peeing.” You say, your voice devoid of everything you’re currently feeling. Although you’re not even sure you know _what_ you’re feeling, but it sure as heck doesn’t match up with the cheery, ‘ _there’s nothing wrong here!_ ’ tone your voice picks up on its own.

Toni looks on edge. It’s like she’s waiting for you to snap. A frown, pursed lips, fidgety hands.

“You can tell me if you want, you know. I’m your friend. For real. I can help.”

And the façade breaks, if only for a moment. You close your eyes, holding in everything before you speak, “Oh no, Toni. You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

You want to cry but will yourself not to. _This is the moment_ , a voice whispers. Do it now and be done with it. You’ll save the both of you _so many_ struggles.

“We’re not friends, Toni. I– I don’t want to be your friend.” You can’t look at her so, instead, you focus on your hands, on the clear nail polish that you applied previously that evening and the French tips that crown it. “You know about my religious beliefs and, instead of respecting that, you keep pushing me and I can’t– I won’t tolerate you–”

“Wait, what? What the fuck, Shelby…” she’s a controlled explosion, breathing before continuing, “Shelby look, I know it’s hard and things are complicated, but I am _not_ pushing you. I want to help. If you tell me to go, I will.”

You look up mostly out of surprise. You were sure with your words you would have ticked her off. You know exactly how to tick her off. it’s the one thing you’re used to, since freshmen year. But she doesn’t. She’s calm, breathing hard yes, but looking up at you with steady eyes and a set jaw.

“You don’t understand,” you continue, shaking you head slightly, “if I’m not perfect I– I–” _I’m not loved,_ “I’ve _got_ to be perfect. There’s always someone watching. You don’t understand the pressure I’m under! It feels as though wherever I go there’s someone asking me to meet some kind of expectation!”

“Not now, though.” she retorts, spreading her arms from wall to wall in the small bathroom. “Right now, you don’t have to answer to anyone.”

You roll your eyes, “I can’t live my whole life inside a bathroom, Toni.”

“You can’t live you whole life like this either.” And there’s pain in her voice. _Why does she care?_ “And I’m not going to lecture you on how, or why, or how fast you should figure things out for yourself, but you _do_ have to–”

“I don’t have to do a single thing for _you,_ Toni!”

“Not for me, but for yourself!”

You want to speak, to scream, but your words get caught on your throat. There’s a silence then, as her words sink into your skin. _‘for yourself’._ You think back and wonder when was the last time you did something for yourself. You wince as the memory comes back. A kiss. The start of all of your troubles. You reach up and rub your closed eyes to try and make sense of the fog that’s crawling into your mind. “Stop.” You say, but you’re not sure who you’re talking to anymore, “Just, stop. Stop, stop, stop, _please_.”

“Look Shelby, no matter _who_ you are, you’ll always have someone.” And there’s kindness in her voice, not anger or disgust or _distance_ , “You’ll always have me. And Martha, and Leah, and Fatin and Dot, and Nora and Rachel. And so _many_ more. You’ll never be alone.”

A pause. Your ears are filled with the raucous rush of blood pumping through your veins. Your eyes are starting to hurt from the pressure of the heel of your palms. You almost miss it as she speaks again. “And you’ll be okay.”

  
  


When you open your eyes again, she’s not there. The door’s open, but there’s no one outside, either. And you miss her. Your body starts aching like it hasn’t in a while. And you feel everything, all at once, and it’s deafening. You drop onto the closed toilet seat and stare at the tiles as your hands tremble, your throat burns, and tears start flowing down your cheeks.

You sit there for a long moment, wondering what the rest think happened. You’re about to return to them, your face washed and dried to your best capacity, when Dot knocks on the open door. You try to smile at her but end up grimacing.

“So, uh, I’m not one to get all up on other people’s business as, like, a persona rule. But…” she’s hesitant as she steps inside, “Whatever’s going on with the two of you, you know we’ll never pick sides, right? You’ll always have a spot with us. You’re not a bad hang, you know that, right?”

You laugh a little, wondering if that’s true. You remember when you all first talked about Toni’s sexuality, back at the retreat in freshmen year. You remember how they hated you that first day – how _she_ hated you.

“Oh, Dottie, you have no idea.”

A beat, “Then tell me.”

And you look up at her. She’s been through so much; she’s survived so much. You remember her dad. He was so different from yours. He was kind and warm, and genuine, in a way your own has never felt.

Whenever you think about someone strong, you think about Dot. And yet, she’s also one of the kindest people you know. She was the first to find out about your dentures. And still the only one who actually knows. And she never laughed or said anything.

“I’m gay.” You say, and though you’re scared, for a moment, it feels so _fucking_ freeing, you feel tears spilling from your eyes yet again, but this time they make you feel _relieved_. You drop back onto the toilet seat and dare a glance up at Dot’s face, anxiety creeping back in for a moment. She’s comically surprised. Eyebrows up, her mouth in a slightly flattened ‘o’. “Oh,” she says, leaning with a hand on the banister.

You nod, an acid chuckle leaving your lips, “Yeah, and I’m going to Hell for it. At least according to my father.”

And it’s _hilarious_ , honestly, so you laugh. Because a father hating his own daughter, when said out loud, sounds like saying an elephant’s hanging by a thread of spiderweb, and it’s holding.

“Damn. That’s rough.” Dot’s voice is awkward and dry, but oddly reassuring as she continues, “Well, y’know, you can always move out, leave him behind.”

And the idea sounds like a joke – leave? And go _where_? Live in the streets? – so you’re about to laugh, to shake your head and call Dot out on it, but then, you consider it. And then it sounds appealing. No more Dad and eternal damnation. Or at least no more Dad and disapproving looks, estranged conversations, cold shoulders. But then you’d also be leaving Mom, and you brother and sister, and–

“That’s crazy,” you say, smiling up at Dot, “But thanks for the joke, I needed a cheering up.”

Dot rolls her eyes, “I was serious, Shelby. If it’s bad, then just leave. Do what’s best for _you_. You know I have an apartment to myself. I could always lend you my couch until you get back on your feet.”

You’re shaking your head before she even finishes talking, “Oh, I could never. And leave my family? I’d miss them so much! No, it’s okay Dottie, I’ll figure it out on my own, but thank you. That was really kind of you.”

And you stand, and you lay a hand on Dot’s shoulder and you squeeze, begging for the smile on your face to turn into true happiness inside you, into the confidence it tries so hard to emulate.

  
  


You forget about it for a second and find other things to focus on instead. But the idea grows. It grows like a seedling. At first, it looks like it’s not even there, but it’s laying its roots. It takes in nutrients and water, building itself stronger. You don’t realize it, as the thoughts pops up in a fraction of a second only to disappear instantly afterwards. And you think about it for all the wrong reasons, too. When your mom buys a special brand of cereal for your siblings and your dad finds out and throws it away, you think, _I’d buy it, there’s nothing wrong with it_. Or when you ask if you can walk to Church because there’s _snow_ on the ground and it’s lovely, but your father insists on taking the car. Or when there’s a couple on that TV show you’d been watching for so long – watching along with your whole family because it was a good, Christian, show – and they have sex, so then your father turns if off and gives you a two-hour lecture about pre-marital sex. And like that, so many other things.

And then the seedling sprouts a stem and a tiny, little leaf.

//

Leah seals the deal, so to speak.

It’s a day like any other. Mid-November, if you remember correctly. Maybe closer to November’s end. There’s a notification in your phone and you look up from the homework you’re currently doing to check it out. It’s from the group chat, ‘The Unsinkable Eight’. A stupid name you yourself gave the group you have with the girls back when you were all in freshmen year. After the retreat where you all met and the horrible year you went through together, surviving.

Fatin Jadmani (4:11 PM): _guys, I need alcohol ASAP_

Rachel Reid (4:20 PM): …

Rachel Reid (4:20 PM): _when do you NOT need alcohol?_

Toni Shalifoe (4:23 PM): _mood_

Fatin Jadmani (4:24 PM): _no but fr this time_

Dot Campbell (4:24 PM): _what happened?_

Martha Blackburn (4:26 PM): _Everything OK?_

Her dad cheated on her mom, you find out later that day as the eight of you huddle up in Dot’s apartment while the snow falls outside. He cheated and Fatin found out so she – in a very Fatin fashion – made sure everybody knew. And then her mom’d taken her dad’s side so now she was grounded for life.

“I just don’t get it, man.” She says as Nora strokes her hair, “It’s so stupid. _He’s_ the one who cheated, and somehow _I’m_ the bad guy?!”

She huffs as Dot hands her a solo cup full of Vodka and cranberry juice. The only drink they had available in such short notice. “As soon as I’m eighteen, I’m moving out.”

“Ugh, isn’t that the dream?” asks Leah as she sits up from her spot on a small beanbag beside you. they all laugh halfheartedly.

“Where would you go?”

You’re all sitting around a small coffee table that’s at least a hundred years old and covered in cups and vodka and a gallon of cranberry juice and, since Dot’s not exactly rich, most are sitting on small pillows or the carpet. You’re sitting on the floor, your legs crossed next to Rachel. Toni, Nora, and Fatin sit on the couch, cuddled together in the small space. Toni’s playing with her cup, stirring the liquid inside it and balancing it on her knees while Nora has Fatin’s head on her shoulder, eyes locked on the bare wall in front of them as if in deep thought. To their right sits Leah on the beanbag, her cup almost empty already, and then Rachel, back straight and eyes drawn; then you, and finally Dot, leaning back on a small pillow, nursing her drink with a calm expression on her face.

“I’d move to England if I could.” Continues Leah.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Canada. It looks really pretty in all the pictures I’ve seen.” Martha adds, “With all the nature and forests.”

And you look at them, all of them one by one, and you realize this is probably the closest you’ve been to relaxed in a million years. Sure, your butt hurts a little bit, but you wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else. In all their little quirks and peeves and attitudes, you’ve come to love them, you realize. Love them so dearly, in fact, you feel like you’re choking up a little, but for the first time in a long time, for a good reason. You smile.

“I’d love to visit Queens someday.” Toni says. Rachel scorns at her, “Why Queens?”

“Why not?”

They all laugh. This time, you laugh with them.

You think back to all those trips together, all the hardships, all the happiness. You think about your happiest moments and there they are. Your adventures, they’re all with them. And then you realize just how much you’ve _missed_ them. In all your mistakes and you quest for forgiveness this past year, you didn’t realize who you’d started leaving behind.

//

It all started freshmen year, with a leadership workshop that ended with a week-long trip to a resort in the desert. At first you tried to be friendly. Being your father’s daughter, you’d been elected head of your Christian Youth Club – the reason why you were there, too – so you were anxious to put to work all the group building techniques you’d read about. But the crowd was tough. Most didn’t want to be there.

Rachel had been sent there by her coach who thought, since Rachel was just starting her career as an elite athlete, leadership abilities were a must. Nora had tagged along due to their parents’ concerns.

Toni was there because she was captain of the basketball team, an admirable thing considering she was scrawny and barely over fourteen. Martha, as Toni’s best friend, volunteered herself.

Dot’s dad forced her to go, she’d confessed only a few years later. He’d said he wanted her to have friends so she wouldn’t be alone. Leah’s case was pretty much the same. And Fatin, well, Fatin was always getting into trouble so her parents thought it’d be a good disciplinary measure.

The trip had been alright. You mostly hung out with Martha and Leah at the beginning, but after a day you were all suddenly _bonding._ The retreat was stupid and childish and boring, and it somehow gave you all the perfect antagonist to bond over. Jeanette, your group’s guide, was also a very easy person to despise, with all the cheery attitude and dumb comments, trying to ‘be one of the kids’. Even you had to admit she was a little too much. And by the end of the week, you saw them as your friends.

You came back stronger, as a group, and it was like God saw you and thought, _‘Alright, they’re strong now, let’s test that’._ That’s when everything turned to _shit._

The first thing that broke was Toni’s foster family. A few weeks after she came back, they contacted the system to send her back. They pulled her from school and settled her somewhere far away, across the state line and everything. Something about a fight and Toni punching her foster brother, claiming he’d tried to steal her things.

She spent her whole sophomore year trying to get back.

And on the meantime, trouble brewed between the seven of you left. Leah fell in love, and so did you, even if you hadn’t noticed, didn’t want to notice. Dot’s father died, Rachel was hospitalized and then put into a special facility to treat her ED. And then Nora lost Quinn, and you lost Becca, and Jeffrey dumped Leah and she finally told you about the whole thing. About his real age. About everything.

And then Toni visited, and Martha broke down, confessing the truth about her past. The trial and the lies, and everything.

It was a mess, but you all worked through it, together. Therapy, cathartic drunken nights by Fatin’s pool, summers at Leah’s grandparent’s beach house, and so many sleepovers.

Toni came back, a little rougher ‘round the edges, junior year after her social worker realized she was only running away to return to Martha. That’s when she was assigned to the trailer park and back into high school with the rest of you. The Unsinkable Eight were back together and, for the first time, you tried to be Toni’s friend.

//

“See, I’ve got my whole life mapped out. I’m gonna go to L.A. and cash in one of my Dad’s heinous watches. Then, I’ll get an apartment at 1600 vine, where all the influencers live.” Fatin’s voice pulls you back into reality.

“No idea what any of that means,” Dot laughs, “but if you’re looking for a roommate, I might be interested.”

“Dorothy,” Fatin sits up straight, turning to Dot as Nora pulls back from caressing her hair, “are you offering to be my live-in muscle?”

Dot fakes a swipe under her eyes, as if getting rid of a tear, “Well, living alone sucks ass, so yes. Obviously, yes.”

“People are going to assume we’re lovers because, let’s face it, those cargo shorts still scream ‘gay’.”

Dot bursts into laughter, almost dropping her cup.

“It’s not our uniform, you know.” Toni chimes in, addressing Fatin with a severe look in her eyes, “We’ve all got our own different swag.”

“I know. I’m just saying.” Fatin laughs too, knowing by now not to take Toni too seriously, “People are going to talk. and I’m going to _like it_.”

She starts making kissing faces towards Dot, who instantly reciprocates. The whole group laughs as you squirm in your seat. Of course, it’s not always perfect. Sometimes ever the best of people get to you in all the wrong ways. You consider standing up, heading for the bathroom for a little breathing space. To get your racing heart under control. That’s when you catch her eyes on you. She’s questioning, worried. _You okay?_ You swallow and grip your cup tightly, concentrating on your breathing as it slows down a little. You nod.

//

Later that evening, as the rest drift off to sleep in various positions and surfaces, you head for the kitchen. Your mouth feels dry, so you pour yourself a cup of tap water and lean back on the counter while you drink it. Your eyelids feel heavy. It’s not an everyday thing for your parents to allow for you to go to a sleepover, not after what happened during the summer. But they allowed it now and you can’t help thinking about how unbelievably at home you feel in an apartment you’ve only gone to for parties and hang-outs. How it’s not much different from how you feel at home. Everything’s strange and old at the same time.

At home, you know where everything is, but you’re scared of moving stuff, scared of making it all a little too much _yours_. It’s not yours, it’s the _family’s._

Here, you’re not so sure where anything is, but it feels like it doesn’t matter, not really. And it’s not just Dot’s relaxed nature in regards of cleaning and house-maintenance, but more of a ‘make yourself at home’ vibe. You laugh. You didn’t use the word _vibe_ before you got close to Toni, you think. She’s rubbing off on you, even now. You roll your eyes.

 _I could always lend you my couch until you get back on your feet._ Dot’s offer tosses and turns inside your brain. Out here, so far from home physically, it sounds so good your chest aches in the good sense. But back home, you can’t even dream of turning it into a reality. Not when you have to face your father, or worse, your mom and siblings. You don’t know if you’re strong enough to leave them, to _actually_ leave.

“Can’t sleep either?” Leah’s voice startles you and you jump, almost dropping you glass of water, “Shit, sorry.”

You laugh, “It’s alright.” you assure her as she pulls a glass from one of the cabinets and pours herself some water too.

“Just too many thoughts, right?”

You nod.

“I get it.” She heaves herself onto the counter beside you and sips from her glass, “You know, speaking as someone who’s been pretty much on and off the rails, _repeatedly_ , in the past few years…you should go easy on yourself.”

You turn to face her. She’s looking ahead, her eyes lost somewhere as they catch that dreamy look she so often sports; lost and serious and a tad melancholic. You wonder if she’s thinking of him. You know her story, of course. You were there to pick up the pieces, all of you. What he did… you shudder every time you even think about it.

“Love is… well, everything. I know we can’t blame it all on circumstances, but, you know, we are what we are and what happens to us because of it, it’s not something we can change. There’s no changing who we are and _who we love_. So, to care for love…” her voice gets lower and lower, until she trails off, unsure of what was coming after.

“Isn’t that what we’re all afraid of, anyways?” you whisper, pursing your lips as you look away. She turns to you, “That we won’t be loved? That we’ll be all alone?”

You feel her grip you shoulder, and, after a beat, she whispers back, “You’re not alone, though.” Then, she adds, “You should get some sleep, Shelby.”

She leaves you in the darkness of the kitchen. You look out through the window only to find it covered up to the middle with snow that’s been amassed on the ledge. You smile. Oh, how you love snow. That’s one thing the Lord truly did amazingly.

You head back to the living room where the rest are a moment later. The light coming in through the window illuminates the room just enough for you to recognize each lump. You catch Nora and Rachel sleeping side by side on the floor, Nora’s arm loosely draped over Rachel’s shoulder. Martha and Leah have claimed the beanbag as their pillow, wrapped in blankets and woolen cots. On the couch, Fatin’s laying on top of Dot’s unconscious body, her head resting on the crook of Dot’s neck.

In the darkness, you allow yourself to admire them for a moment longer. Their comfort, their closeness, the mutual _understanding_ that seems to course through them, even in sleep. Fatin’s hand on Dot’s chest. Dot’s arms wrapped loosely around Fatin’s waist. You wish, for a moment, to have that with someone. No, not just _someone_. Your chest aches with want. You look away.

Beside them, curled into the smallest ball possible is Toni, her head resting on top of the couch’s worn armrest, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her face, always so full of emotion, is calm now. She looks younger, somehow. Softer. And now your heart aches all over again. You reach out, thinking about maybe touching her, stroking her hair, her cheek. Maybe kiss her gently goodnight. You don’t, of course.

You head over to the beanbag. Leah’s breathing is already evened out as you lay beside her, pulling on one of the blankets they all share.

“Shelby?”

Toni’s voice is barely over a whisper. You turn in surprise and find her exactly where she was on the couch, only her raised head any indication that she’s not asleep anymore.

“Yeah?” you ask softly.

“I’m sorry… about pushing you, back in Fatin’s house. I never meant to make you feel pressured, I just wanted to help.” And her voice is covered in guilt and pain and regret.

You smile in the darkness, “It’s okay, Toni.” But then the though strikes you and you add, “I– I forgive you.”

You’d never thought about it before but, knowing Toni, she must’ve been blaming herself for everything. _I don’t matter!_ You remember as your heart shudders in your chest.

You hear her shifting against the couch’s fabric for an instant before she speaks again, “Thank you.”

//

You’re home when you text Dot. You couldn’t do it in person, but you think it’s okay. There are some things you _must_ do, even if you can’t do them in person, can’t do them the ‘right’ way. Text’ll do.

You (11:32 AM): _Hey dottie! I was wondering about something you said_

Dot Campbell (11:35 AM): _Hey shel waddup?_

You (11:35 AM): _Remember that offer you made me?_

Dot Campbell (11:36 AM): _???_

Dot Campbell (11:37 AM): _Oh that you could sleep on my couch if you ever need it?_

Dot Campbell (11:37 AM): _Wait did they kick you out???_

Dot Campbell (11:37 AM): _You need me to pick you up?? Are you okay??_

You (11:37 AM): _I’m alright! Don’t worry_

You sigh, unsure of how to explain further. How do you tell her you’re planning on coming out and leaving? You see the three dots indicating Dot’s typing pop up twice before disappearing again. Your hearts a mess of tight knots in your chest, but your breathe out and type.

You (11:39 AM): _It’s just been tough I guess. I don’t want to stay here anymore_

Dot Campbell (11:39 AM): _My door’s wide open goodkind, whenever you need it_

//

You know Sadie Hawkins shouldn’t have a king and queen, but for some reason you’re chosen.

You’d decided to attend with the rest. Things have been quiet and good and since your conversation with Dot you feel calmer, more secure in everything around you. Like the fog that separated you from the rest of the world has finally lifted. You see your friends and everyone else around you in a whole new light. Your problems don’t seem so big when you’re with them. They drown you when you’re back home, though. Because your father’s there, and your mother, and the silences and side-glances smother you until you’re craving to go to school, or church, or anywhere that’s not home. So, there’s still that itch in the bottom of your belly. _Move out, move out, move out._

Leah invites Ian – _as friends_ , as she assures the rest of you – and Martha invites Joe, a guy in her English class who she’s been crushing on since sophomore year and who turned out to be into her, too. But for the six of you left, you go as a group.

Rachel offers her house for the eight of you to get ready. Since her and Nora live there, it’s the obvious choice.

You arrive with your dress on its hanger and a backpack full of your old pageant stuff since you'd promised the girls you’d take care of make-up, being the pageant queen you used to be. At the door you ring the bell and Rachel opens a moment later and you're stunned. She's wearing a striking red combo, her midriff showing, and her long legs bare, and it’s much more skin than you’ve ever seen her showing, except for maybe when she’s wearing her swimsuit. But now it’s different, she looks stylish; not strong and athletic, but _sexy_.

“Woah, Rachel.” You say, because you really can’t think of words in that moment.

“You like it?”

She looks smug, so you raise a teasing eyebrow, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think there’s someone out there you’re trying to seduce.”

You both laugh as you climb the stairs up to her room.

Nora, Martha and Toni are already there, and you say hi to them before setting up your little make-up station. Nora’s wearing a long, flowing white dress with a small lilies pattern all over and she looks angelical. Martha’s wearing a purple dress that goes down to her knees with a flowing skirt that hugs her body in all right places. But your eyes linger on Rachel’s bed where Toni sits, crossed-legged and playing with her loose tie between her fingers.

She’s wearing the same tux from last year’s prom, you realize with a heavy pang in your chest. But this time, she’s added a pair of suspenders and a bowtie, currently hanging round her neck. The collar of the shirt’s opened too, and a little too widely for your little Christian heart to handle, if you’re being honest. You get flustered. And she looks amazing. Her hair’s loose and you don’t think she’s planning on tying it back. She also didn’t say anything about make-up, so you guess she’s not getting that either. But she looks astounding anyways. Even better, you think, than what she would look like with make-up or a fancy hairdo. She looks natural, and comfortable, and true. And hot, of course. Really hot.

You swallow thickly before turning to Nora, you first ‘client’.

The evening passes in a blur and, finally, you’re all ready. Ian picks Leah up and you wish her a happy evening, and then Joe picks Martha up and she’s nervous but you calm her down.

You arrive at the gym half an hour later and it’s _fun._ It’s not formal, or restrictive like other times you’ve gone to such dances. You’re all laughing and dancing and drinking and talking, and it’s unlike any event you’ve been at before.

“Okay so, you just put your hand up now,”

You’re standing beside the drinks table and a few feet away Fatin, face as serious as she’s never looked before, is teaching Rachel, Toni and Dot some kind of dance she says she saw on Tik Tok, “and then you sway, like, you _thrust_ your hips and–”

“ _Thrust_ your hips?” Dot breaks the position to bend over and burst into laughter. She chose a suit too, you note, with a lovely red tie and her hair combed back in a style that reminds you of a secret spy. Rachel and Toni dissolve into laughter a second later.

“Dorothy! Pay attention. Yes, you thrust your hips forward, y’know, like you’re fucking someone except it’s the air. It’s sexy.” This makes the girls laugh even harder as Fatin rolls her eyes “Oh, c’mon!” and she gives up a second later, deciding to head your way instead. Beside you, Nora snickers, “Fatin looks like she needs a real drink.”

“I can’t. I just can’t with those three.” Says the taller girl as she approaches you, her hands up in the air and an exasperated smile on her face, “They’re useless.”

“Yes, they definitely are.” You say as you feel laughter bubbling up your throat. Nora, beside you, laughs along and Fatin rolls her eyes, pulling the drink from your hand and taking an exaggerated sip from it.

“Ugh, I hate school dances and their non-alcoholic beverages.”

“Is this thrusting enough for you?” Toni appears from behind Fatin, Rachel and Dot in tow, and they’re all doing some weird dance with their hips as they crouch and move their arms around in the air. Everyone laughs but she stops as soon as she catches sight of you.

“No, Toni! It’s like _this._ ”

Fatin starts dancing and, to be honest, she does it way better than Toni, but you still smile at the shorter girl who comes to stand by your side.

“Having fun?” she asks.

You nod enthusiastically, “Oh, yes. Definitely.” She laughs.

"Isn't it a little too _liberal_ for you? I mean, so much fun must surely be _sinful_ , right?"

You roll your eyes before pushing her by the shoulder. She laughs again, and you feel as if you're drunk on the sound. You'd do anything to hear that deep, rich laughter every single day of your life.

And then they choose you.

The music suddenly stops and someone’s announcing the results for the Queen and King’s elections. 

And it’s surprising to say the least because this year you haven’t even had time to worry about your popularity or your friends, not outside the Unsinkables, anyways. But they still choose you queen and, _oh God_ , Andrew’s king.

Everyone’s cheering as you’re pushed to the stage and you climb up, and they put the crown on your head and there’s so much _fucking cheering_ , loud and deafening. He leads you down the stage with a plastic smile on his lips and you panic. It’s like prom all over again. And all you can do is search the crowd for that small, black tux. The open collar. That mess of unruly, dark hair. Those lovely brown eyes.

She’s there, next to the girls, hands buried on her pants pockets, jaw set. But when she sees you looking at her you see her smile. And you make up your mind.

You make it down the stage and onto the big, empty circle that’s been cleared for the slow dance before you let go of Andrew’s hand. He’s calling for you, but you rush to the edge and push past faceless bodies until you reach her. And you grab her hand and look into her eyes. _Is this okay?_ You ask. She nods.

You pull her into the circle and the music starts. And you dance.

//

At first, it’s awkward. Neither of you knowing how to lead and you stumble a little but then, with steady hands, she grabs your waist and takes the first step, guiding you, twirling you around until the dance floor starts filling with couples joining you in dancing. You feel butterflies on your guts for the first time in a long while and you giggle like a crazy schoolgirl but she’s smiling too, so you don’t really care.

The song’s lovely, something slow and melancholic. You look down into her eyes and she’s smiling and it’s brilliant and if it wasn’t for your own deeply curated and exercised self-restrain, you’d lean down in a second to capture her lips with your own. You bite your lip trying to get the thought out of your head and suddenly her eyes are darting down, and you think she’ll do it. But then she looks up and leans forward, placing the softest of kisses on your cheek. Her lips linger for a moment before she pulls back, and your grip tightens on her shoulder. You want nothing but to have her closer, to touch her face, her hands, to kiss her.

You lean down, pressing your cheek to her shoulder, and close your eyes as you place a hand on the back of her head, scratching lightly at the curls underneath. She shivers, shifting her hold on you, sliding her arms round your waist and pressing her chest to yours. And you breathe. And it’s eternal.

//

You’re freaking out and she’s quiet. Calm. Steady.

You’ve left the gym after your dance. Once the song ended and the music changed to some up-beat techno-pop trash and you realized everyone’s eyes were on the two of you, and there were whispers and pointed fingers, you started freaking out so Toni pulled you by the hand, out into the cold night air. She gave you her jacket and sat down on the curb by the parking lot.

“ _Shit.”_ You mutter, because you’re shivering, and your pulse is so high you think you’re in danger of having a stroke. She turns to you with a smile, “You say your prayers with that mouth?”

And you remember the joke, and you huff and smile for a moment before returning to pace in front of her, your heels clicking against the pavement.

“How are you _not_ freaking out?” you ask her, “You’re always so fiery and passionate and now you’re just…” you gesture towards her, her arms round her legs, her chin resting atop her knees. She shrugs.

“I don't think I've got it in me to get that scared about something that could be good.” She says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like,” and she seems to struggle with the words for a moment before continuing, “I’ve got nothing to lose but you. I don't care about what everyone inside thinks. And I don’t want to lose you. So, I’m here for you, with anything that you need me to do, or not do or, whatever.”

//

You go get your car but Toni drives. You’re shaking and it’s not exactly the safest way to drive. And you go somewhere far away.

The music on the radio sings softly and you watch her, behind the wheel. You didn’t know she even knew how to drive or had a license, and you ache for a moment, thinking about all the stolen moments you could have shared with her, had things gone differently. You could have helped her practice, you think. You could have gone with her to take the test, been there once she passed and hugged her to celebrate.

She’s humming lightly, you realize. It’s a country song but she’s humming along. Toni Shalifoe humming along to a country song. That must be a first. You smile and your heart swells with something akin to pride, or maybe it’s just _her_ , weaving herself into your chest, grabbing hold of everything inside of you and spreading her warmth everywhere, making you feel as if the Heavens are only an arms' reach away. You make a mental note to remember the song.

She’s looking out through the windshield at the road ahead, so you only catch her profile. The thin nose, the pursed lips humming along, the concentrated eyes, drawn and serious. The high cheekbones and messy curls. Jaw set, left arm on the steering wheel and right one on the stick shift.

You reach out on a moment’s impulse and place your hand over hers on the lever. Her skin's warm, and she stiffens for a moment. Then she looks at you and her eyes soften. She smiles a little and threads one finger over yours.

You park somewhere up on a hill. You can oversee the town’s lights bellow your feet – it's almost like a fairytale, or a movie, as you look down at all the small houses, and buildings, and cars, and lights – and a streetlamp keeps away the slithers of shadows that the night has uncovered in such a desolated location. It’s a parking lot of some sort, empty now, and surrounded by trees and the highway you came up through.

She cuts off the engine and turn to look at you. Your hand is still in hers and she strokes your knuckles as if it’s an afterthought.

“Did you bring me here to kill me?” you ask, chuckling lightly, your Texan drawl heavy on your words. You’re nervous and worried that your hands will start to sweat, and she’ll notice.

She smiles, “Nah, just thought you could use some air. And the view’s nice.”

You nod, thankful. You think that if you’d stayed inside that gym for even a moment longer, you’d have exploded. But right now, it’s like you’ve been transported to a whole different world where there’s only you, and Toni, and the car, and the lights bellow. Outside, through the windows, it all feels more like a dream.

“So, you really think this could be good?” you ask, because her words have been tumbling around your head since you got into the car.

She doesn’t hesitate, a smile spreading through her lips and _damn,_ she’s so pretty you feel butterflies in your stomach again. And they clear any kind of nervousness you’ve been feeling – for the first time that knot tied around your windpipe that feels like it’s been there since you were born is loosen. “Yeah, I mean, I trust you.”

“The hell did I do to earn that trust?” you ask, turning away from her. You’re truly baffled. You’ve done nothing but hurt her, over and over again. Hurt her, and Becca, and Dad and–

“You danced with me.” She says, matter of factly as she squeezes your fingers for a moment, “That was brave as fuck. And you forgave me. Look, Shelby, we both hurt each other. And I know the way forward won’t be easy, but I really think– I want to be there for you, be it as your friend or… or as something more.”

You turn to her and the openness you see in her face surprises you. Any trace of the usual cocky and aggressive exterior is gone. She’s biting her lip, eyebrows pushed together in concern and doubt. Your reach forward slowly, pressing your free hand to her cheek and she leans into the touch, her eyes closing for a moment as you press your hand to her skin. Then she looks at you, eyes covered in a crystalline wall of unshed tears and a single question – almost like a dare – sits on her lips. So, you close your eyes and kiss her.

Her lips are slightly parched and stiff and warm but, as you move against them, they soften and soon enough she’s kissing you back, matching the hungry energy that’s suddenly take over you. with a kiss you wish to tell her everything. How sorry you are, how much you’ve missed her, how much you need her, how much you regret everything you did. You thread your fingers through the back of her neck and lay your other hand on her thigh to get some stability as you lean over the car’s console to reach her. She sighs into your mouth and your chest seems to grow as a hot, prickly feeling spreads all around you.

Too soon, you separate for air, your foreheads touching as you heave, lips spread in small smiles.

you wet your lips with your tongue, and you catch her eyes as they follow your movements, and the warm feeling moves down low, settling at the bottom of your stomach. She reaches up with her hands and grabs your cheeks, smiling as she asks, eyes hooded and dark, “You sure?”

You kiss her again for good measure and for a moment it’s almost as if you’d forgotten just how good it felt to kiss her. How your fingers tingled when you touched her skin, how your whole chest roared when you felt her lips on you, how it felt to hold her, to touch her, to _feel_ her, everywhere.

It takes you a moment to break the kiss again, remembering her question, “I’m sure.”

//

You've always doubted your father's customs and rituals, and you've been questioning your faith ever since all of this started, or even since before. Maybe it all started freshman year, or maybe even _before_ that. You don’t remember and you don’t really care for it much right now, but having Toni on top of you, feeling as her legs settle around your hips on the back of your car, feeling her hands cares your arms, your shoulders, your neck, you face; this very much feels like religion, you think. Like a religion you'd gladly submit to, no questions asked.

You wouldn’t mind spending hours upon hours kissing her, muttering her name in the dark like a prayer, your hands buried in the front of her shirt as she kisses your lips, your cheeks, your neck; as she nibbles at your ear and sighs, calling your name with a voice you’d never heard from her before. She traces a pattern through your exposed skin with her lips until she finds the place where your neck meets your collarbones, right where your pulse is stronger, and you feel her bite. You want to protest because it _should_ hurt, she _bit_ you. But the only sound that leaves you mouth is a desperate kind of groan that has you blushing intensely as heat spreads throughout your whole body. And she has the nerve to _laugh._ She raises her head slowly, planting kisses on her way up to meet your eyes.

“That’s–” and your voice sinks low and you’re overwhelmed so you stop talking. Her eyes look dark as they focus on you, pupils blown, “Is that alright?” she asks with a smirk already in place and you urge to turn the tables around, so you reach out and grab at the collar of her shirt with both hands. You find the untied bowtie’s ends and you pull, her face coming up inches from yours. You hear her catch her breath and you _burn_ , but you control yourself, leaning closer, your lips only inches from hers. And you take your sweet little time saying, “I think you could do a little better, don’t you?”

And the smile she gives you makes you bite your lips, makes you want to kiss her and touch her– but she doesn’t let you. She dips her head and immediately starts sucking on your neck, right under your chin, and you moan. You’re mortified and so turned on at the same time, you’re unsure of what to pay attention to. But she doesn’t stop. On the contrary. The sounds coming from your mouth only seem to encourage her as her hands start to roam from your arms to your waist and your stomach. She scratches at your dress absentmindedly and you groan. _Just pull it off already_ , you think.

_“Careful, you don’t want to ruin your best dress.”_

Your mom’s voice makes you shiver. Your hands are on Toni’s shoulders in seconds, pushing her away, the image of your mother leaning against your bedroom’s doorway as you pack up your dress and make-up floating in front of your mind’s eyes. You shake your head to try and erase it, but it won’t go.

“Fuck, Shelby, what’s wrong?” She’s confused, startled, but you continue to push her off you, mumbling incoherent sounds as you try to pull your legs from under her. Once you’ve finally achieved it – she’s sitting back against the opposite door and a scared look on her face – you pull them close and hug them.

“Shelby?” her voice is small, and you look up at her, trying to catch your breath. The suspenders hang from her waist and you wonder when exactly did you push them off of her. The shirt’s all crumbled, bunched up and unbuttoned, her sports bra peeking through the cleavage. Her hair’s even fluffier than normal, and her cheeks are reddened, but you’re unsure whether it’s from all the kissing or from the surprise.

“I’m okay.” You mutter, your voice watery.

“It’s okay not to be okay, though.” She sits up and tries to straighten her shirt, “I understand if this is too much, if you’re–”

“Stop, please. I can’t talk about… not yet.” You rush to say, “But I’m okay with it, I – I like it.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

You take a deep breathe before straightening your back and letting go of your legs. _She’s not here_ , you think. _They can’t catch you, not right now. You’re safe._

“My parents, I– I’m going to tell them.”

She looks confused for a moment, “About this?”

“That I’m– that we’re– that I’m gay.”

This time you manage not to cry, but you still feel the relief you remember from your conversation with Dot, pushing against your skin as it overflows your senses along with the anxiety, of course.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. And you tell her. You tell her about your plan, how you’ll tell them and hurry to take as much of your stuff from the house as you can before they call the cops or something, and you’ll leave, and you’ll move in with Dot and finish school, if you’re lucky. You’ll get a job afterwards, probably, and you’ll make do.

And she’s proud. You can see it in her smile, in the way she reaches out to hold your hand while you speak and the way she says, “Shit, Shelby. I didn’t know.” and “What can I do to help?”

You don’t tell her about what happened during the summer, not yet. You don’t talk about your father and how he looks at you, or about your mother and her growing hesitance to allow you time with your younger siblings, in case you rub off on them or something. But you feel a certainty inside of you. There’ll be other moments, you think, other times like this. Where it’s just the two of you and there’s only trust and warmth in the air. You’ll tell her then.

She kisses you with a passion that has you almost bumping your head against the door behind you. You laugh together, the kiss breaking in lieu of the glee. And she’s got her arms around you again, squeezing you as you kiss again and you pray to God, even if it’ll be the last time you pray, the last time He listens, for the moment to never end.

//

You wake up, your shoulders cold, and a mop of dark brown hair on your face. You smile, inhaling the scent of coconut from Toni’s shampoo.

With a startle you realize you’re naked, your skin clinging uncomfortably to the car’s leather seats. But Toni’s back presses against your chest, and you feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing. Your hand’s in hers and she’s got it trapped against her chest, held close like a comfort. And your legs are tangled with hers, and there’s a blanket over the two of you, so you relax for a moment, leaning back on the arm you’d been using as your pillow.

And you smile.

You breathe in deep and exhale and you close your eyes, concentrating on the sensations, on the feeling of her skin against yours, on the warmth radiating from her body, on the soft touch of her fingers intertwined with yours.

//

You get dressed amongst shy glances and awkward smiles, about an hour later. The sun's peaking over the horizon and the clock on the dashboard indicates it’s almost half past seven. Your parents must be furious. You’d told them you’d go to an after party until maybe two in the morning, and even then, they’d almost screamed, ordering a curfew at twelve. You agreed, of course, although knowing you wouldn’t be sleeping under their roof anyways, not anymore.

The drive back into town is silent, too, but you’ve got her hand in yours as you drive and, once the air starts making itself scarce from your lungs as your hands start to tremble in anticipation, she talks to you, soothing your nerves with cringy jokes and bizarre stories.

You turn the last corner and suddenly there it is.

It’s surprising – almost an out of body experience – to look at your house on that moment. You try and see it from an outsider’s perspective. There’s a basketball hoop on the driveway and a couple of bikes propped up against the house’s wall. There’s a minivan and a truck, and a few dirt bikes on the garage. The snow's been perfectly shoveled; the bushes perfectly trimmed. From the clear windows you can see embroidered curtains hanging from every frame.

_Perfect. Just perfect._

The one thing you could never be.

You’re angry, suddenly. You take a deep breath before parking the car right outside, on the curb. The engine’s cut and you feel Toni’s expectant eyes on you. You know she’ll do whatever you tell her and a part of you wants her to go with you. To enter the house, your hand in hers, and for her to lead you through the whole thing. It’s her forte, after all. Confrontations. But you know you can’t. Not because she wouldn’t do it, you know she would. But you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t do it yourself, if you didn’t own it.

“Stay here,” you tell her, turning to catch her eyes, a warm brown color illuminated by the clear rising sun. You notice the specks of gold for the first time then. More on her left one than her right. You smile, making a mental note to get a better look at them later once you’re alone. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“You sure?”

You nod, “I’m sure.”

//

You open the door and old habits kick in. You try as hard as you can not to make any noises but, soon enough, you hear hurried footsteps down the stairs and there he is. Your dad appears on the hallway in his pajamas, an angry scowl set on his face.

“Where the hell do you think you’ve been?”

You stutter and shrink in your spot, frozen with your hand still on the door’s handle. You don’t know what to say as you rack your brain for an excuse, a reason for him to forgive you, to love you again. But then you snap, and remember Toni outside, and you try to summon her energy, her passion, her strength. You will it to become a part of yourself, too; to seep into your pores and weave itself into your cells, to strengthen your muscles so you’ll stand taller, so your voice won’t stutter, so you’ll be able to look him in his stern face and jut out your chin, narrow your eyes and say, “I’m gay, Dad. And I’m leaving.”

//

You leave the house with a hastily packed suitcase, a backpack, and a book on your hand. You don't even know which book it is, you just picked it from your desk as you left, you dad's voice booming behind you. You’re still wearing your dress, you realize. You haven’t showered, your make-up’s still on and everything that has happened throughout the night and morning clings to your skin; mainly, Toni – her touch, her kisses, her everything –, but also the jokes, and the crown, and the nervousness, and the fear, and you want to cry. Tears push at your eyelids, wrapping a heavy hand around your throat.

You’re stumbling towards your car when you notice them.

Toni’s the first to reach you, hands ready to take the heavy suitcase from your arms and help you out. But, behind her, you find Fatin and Dot, still in their formal wear, and Rachel in a pair of sweatpants, and Nora and Martha and Leah; and they’re all there and they’re all walking towards you, damned it be the cold and your father’s pristinely shoveled front lawn as they surround you and hug you. There are questions in their eyes but, for the moment, the only one who speaks is Fatin, “Toni called, said you could use some backup?”

And you turn to the small girl and you could kiss her, so you do. She’s surprised and it makes you smile. “Thank you.” you tell them, all of them. You didn’t see how they reacted to the kiss, but you see it in their faces once you all start walking back to the cars. The surprise, the smiles. You load everything and sit yourself in the passenger’s seat – Toni insists on driving –, and you take one last look back at the house.

It looks just like it did when you arrived. Without you, it doesn’t seem to change even one bit. You wonder what they’ll do with your room, with the rest of your stuff. Will they throw it away? Probably, you think. After all they’re a sinner’s stuff. You smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! If you've got any prompts or headcannons or just want to scream about the show and Shoni and everything please go talk to me on tumblr at yourstrullyme, I'm dying for more The Wilds in my life.


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